"Consider the Lilies of the Sea" by Anne Porter

Their salt wet life erased, eroded, onlyThe shells of snails lie on the sand,Their color darkens toward the whorl’s conclusion,The center is nearly black. Even the fragmentsFaithfully observe their tribal customOf involution; the motionless whirlpoolIs clearly written on the broken shield.

The two jointed petals of a smallTooth-white clamshell stand ajar, and mimicThe opening of wings or of a songbook;Leaves that a minute and obscureDeath sprung open in a depth of sea;Held in one’s hand, they still presentThe light obedient gesture that let go of time.

And close to these frail, scattered, and abandonedCarvings which were the armor and the artOf dark blind jellies that the fish have eaten,The big Atlantic cumulates and pours,Flashes, is felled, and streaks among the pebblesWith wildfire foam.